Friday, 14 December 2012

You must have been born
under a mathematical sign,
because everything
has to add up
reduce down
divide into
or multiply by:
three
seven
or nine.

I once lived in a six-roomed apartment,
and no amount of cajoling could induce you
to set foot over the threshold;
not even when I swore on my life
that your world really wouldn't implode
if you did.
You just sat there on my doorstep,
sipping your coffee and shivering
in the dead of winter, saying
you'd much rather freeze to death
than dare risk tempting fate!

I expect you remember, too, that time
when five letters landed on your doormat?
How you had a major panic attack?
You simply couldn't get your head around
the audacity of these
little white squares of paper
to challenge you to such a degree.
You screamed at me to 'GET RID OF THEM!'
I refused, 'because,' I said,
'they may be important.'
So you sat on the floor in the hall,
dumbly staring at them; clearly
in some kind of trauma.
In the end,
you had to tear two of them in half - to
make up seven, of course.
But even then you couldn't rest:
had to go back and tear
another two to make nine,
it being the higher and, therefore,
most important of the
three numbers.

And as for crossing the road - a
simple enough task, one would think.
Not for you!
Seven vehicles have to pass
before you dare step onto the highway.
It has to be seven precisely,
even if the eighth is following
perilously close behind it.
How many times has an enraged
number eight threatened to kill you,
after screeching to a halt
with number nine firmly embedded
up his backside?
I'm more than convinced you really do
have eight more lives in reserve!

Another big ordeal for you
is eating a packet of crisps.
You have to open them,
count them out,
and if the contents inside aren't divisible
by one of your three numbers
then they're consigned to the nearest bin.
Another pack is then opened
and the process begins again.
Needless to say, you
have to buy your crisps
by the truckload.

And as for your love-life, well,
that has always been 'troubled'
to put it mildly.
The phrase 'one-to-one' just isn't
in your vocabulary.
You're nothing if not predictable.
There have to be three, seven,
or nine on the go at any one time
(now there's a surprise!).
The black eyes, broken noses
and lost teeth must surely
earn you an entry in the
Guinness Book of Records
as 'Most Fought-Over Woman!'

These days,
I often sit and wonder
how it will eventually end - your
life, I mean.
Knowing you as I do, it
certainly won't be peacefully
in bed, of old age.
You'd loath that.
No. It would have to be
in some way numerical and dramatic,
such as the Celtic Triple Death.
Yes, that's it!
Falling,
hanging
then drowning.
And, naturally, you'd accept no less
than a pyramid
as your final resting place -
guarded, of course, by
a triumvirate of Goddess statues.
Only then would you rest in peace:
the unorthodox mathematician
numerically lulled to sleep.

Monday, 12 November 2012

Curiosity enticed me there. I spotted it while passing by on the M2.
Of colossal height, it dominated the landscape
for miles and I found it irresistibly intriguing.
Medieval knights were pathetic people:
forever coveting their neighbours' lands, were
never satisfied with their own no matter
how much they already held.
I felt a need to get inside their heads,
to understand how they could live with themselves
after inflicting such carnage on their fellow man.
So I took the next exit and doubled back,
then followed the brown information signs
until I eventually arrived at the castle gates.

Close to, it was a gaunt, gutted monstrosity
composed of time-worn greyish stone.
Unglazed windows, like the eyeless sockets
of some macabre decaying skull,
gave me a sense of impending doom.
As I ascended steep steps
to the keep entrance and ticket office,
the disturbing notion struck me
that if I entered there would be no going back,
that I'd be trapped in the fabric of this sombre place
for all eternity. I almost turned and walked away,
but a thirst for knowledge overrode my fears.

The audio tour transported
this second millennia psyche back
to Good Friday 1264, where crusader Ralph de Capo
was bravely defending his castle
against the onslaught of Simon de Montfort,
Earl of Leicester, and his men.
I paused the commentary for a moment
in order to picture the bloody scene
in my imagination.
Only the odd flitting shadow, and
a half-heard whisper issued from the unseen life
that lurked in every corner.
I was disappointed, had expected to sense more
in this place so steeped in history.

Turning a corner, I entered a narrow passageway.
In the dank semi darkness a young female
rushed clean through me in an icy chill.
A glimpse of long black hair and torn clothing
barely had time to register in my brain
before she leapt through a window
and fell to the ground below.
'Blanche!' I blurted out, wondering why I'd said that.
Fascinated, I turned back to the commentary,
then later discovered that Lady Blanche de Warrenne,
Ralph de Capo's betrothed,
was rumoured to haunt the keep
sporting an arrow through her heart.
But I saw no arrow, just
a desperate, suicidal young woman.

I ascended spiral steps to the battlements,
my mind still immersed in thirteenth century events.
Then I saw him.
Out of time - both theirs and mine - his attire
and longish flowing hair set him somewhere
in the nineteen-seventies.
He appeared 'high' on something.
Alcohol? Drugs? Perhaps both.
There was a suggestion of others with him,
a group of them.
'I can do it,' he slurred, 'I know I can!'
'Prove it then,' a female voice mocked, 'Just do it!'
He stepped over the parapet,
seemed to hesitate for a moment:
then knelt on the edge of the pigeon net
that spanned the entire top of the keep,
before carefully stretching out flat on his stomach.
The net bowed but held his weight.
My heart leapt into my throat as I watched him
slowly begin to edge forward.
His companions audibly gasped.
I wanted to shout at him to come back, but
found myself unable to either move or speak.
So all I could do was watch in trepidation.

When he was roughly halfway across, the net creaked
and began to tear. I saw the look of terror on his face
as he began scrambling on hands and knees,
desperately trying to reach the far side wall.
Just a metre or so from safety, the net bowed,
distorted into a grotesque shape
then finally gave way beneath him.
Screams from the others hung in the ether
long after they'd faded back into their own time.

Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Whether you believe it's true,or you believe it isn't,you're probably right...
I

Late August,
half past midnight.
A dense luminous fog
oozes from beneath
cemetery mausoleum doors
to roll slowly across the road
and into her garden,
gradually engulfing it
in opaque grey-green nothingness
that creeps ominously
up the house wall
and onto her balcony.

She wakes abruptly
from a nightmarish dream
to see him standing motionless,
so close to the locked doors
that his breath forms
a circle of mist on the glass.
His powerful, penetrating stare
paralyses her - she's
unable to move a muscle,
in spite of being acutely aware
of something probing the depths
of her consciousness.
A scream dies in her throat,
and she's compelled
to open the doors...

II

The night time has become
a million voices calling her.
One, far more bewitching
than the rest, sings a strange
hypnotic lullaby
that promises eternity;
drawing her ever closer
to his world.
The fog comes nightly now.
No matter how cold the air outside,
she makes sure her doors
remain ajar; for his
excruciating kisses
are tinged with an ecstasy
she has never known before.
She craves him
with an all-embracing hunger
that blinds her to the darkness
insidiously taking root
in the core of her Soul.

III

It's the debilitating weakness
that finally confines her to bed.
'Pernicious anaemia,' they diagnose.
'Complete bed-rest and iron pills,
combined with plenty of fresh air - so
keep the windows open at all times,
especially at night,' is their remedy.
(Although I'd have suggestedsealing them with fresh garlicand crucifixes!
But this is century twenty-one
and no one believes
in folklore anymore.)

Why does no one listen
when she tells them
daylight burns?Still they insist on opening
the curtains every morning,
in spite of these angry red welts
they can clearly see
appearing on the exposed flesh
of her arms and legs.
Their misguided response
is an accusation of 'self-harming'
and a demand for psychiatric assessment.

Her skeletal appearance
and zombie-like state,
combined with vomiting
when they force her to eat
convinces him that she's
'Classic text book case:
Eating disorder, most likely bulimia.'Surely such a learned man as he
should realise she has no choice?
Solid food is no longer an option.

IV

She passed away two months ago
and now lies buried
in the cemetery across the road.
Her devoted boyfriend visits daily.
He's here again this evening.
As the Sun sets, he whispers,
'I have to go now, my love,
but I'll come again tomorrow.'
And he lovingly places a bouquet
of white roses on her grave.
Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind
and a split second before long fangs
pierce his jugular
he glimpses two deep puncture wounds
in her lily white neck.

Cause of death:
'Unexplained heart failure - probably
brought on by grief.'
And his neck wounds?
'Accidental contact with rose thorns
as he fell.'

Friday, 26 October 2012

Resting on dusty rafters
in the attic space
cocooned in cobwebs
concealed by darkness
lies a wooden box.

Inside, the story
of a short life
written in love
wrapped in grief
lost in time.

Today, unsealed
a wound revealed
a need fulfilled
in reconnection
to a child.

A teddy bear
stained with tears
and yellow drops
of medication
that failed to save a life.

Graveside cards
stolen from wreaths
their heartfelt words
faded and lost
but not to this heart.

A pack of nappies
never opened,
a babygro
that never clothed
a tiny helpless form.

But most poignant of all
the umbilical clamp
white plastic encrusted
in dried blood.
Is it yours or mine?

If yours then this
is all I have
of a precious baby girl
who lived nine months
inside of me
but a mere two weeks
in the World.

And how these bereaved
and empty arms
long to hold you still,
but I guess for now
your teddy bear
as a substitute must do
and with these often falling tears
I'm counting down life's years
until my time on Earth is spent
and I'm reunited with you.

Friday, 5 October 2012

Implosion of silent anger.
That such sentimentality could lurk
undetected in his psyche
is unthinkable.
Anger becomes blind fury - towards that creature,
but even more so towards himself.

What does this make him?
A soft man-sized mouse
with jelly for nerves - exactly the type
he finds repugnant
and has so often ridiculed.
And he an ex-boxer:
stereotypical hard man,
iron muscled with scars that tell
of a thousand fights hard-won.
When had he ever been afflicted
with feelings?
Not once.

Yet standing here now
in this rain drenched street,
shivering and confused, willing
these fucking tears to dry up
before anyone notices;
he's no more than a quivering mass
of raw emotion - no, worse than that -
of gut wrenching empathy.

And all because of the sight
of something so tiny, so helpless,
that closely resembles a map
of Australia.
A thing completely flat and greyish,
outlined in bright red;
that moments ago
was a frisky squirrel
playing dare with his speeding car.

Sunday, 30 September 2012

Could a man so high-born, noble,
Even see a girl like me;
So low-born and unnoble,
Non-aristocracy?
Or am I just as air to you
Invisible but there,
Something you can look right through
Without the slightest care?

You passed me on the stairs today,
I had no time to hide.
I saw you turn your face away.
Will my presence you never abide?
It seems a governess pure and simple,
Unconnected, dowry free
And plain of face without a dimple
Is all you see in me.

Too often now you're far away
And oblivious to my heart's woe.
Oh how I dread your return one day
With the lovely Miss Ingram in tow.
For I've heard that you're soon to be engaged,
It's the talk of the servant's hall.
And I'm haunted by visions of you both unclothed
After the wedding ball.

How I wish I could be those things
That I can never be.
I'd make you suffer the million stings
That you daily inflict on me.
I'd be a lady of great power,
Of wealth and beauty too;
And I'd dwell high up in my ivory tower,
Unattainable to you.

Perhaps only then would you understand
How it feels to be me:
That although I'm far from a lady grand,
My feelings are the same you see;
For I have as much heart and Soul as you -
Thoughts and feelings the same.
So I can't help longing to be with you
And to someday share your name...

Eyes follow your trail in reverse.
An indirect route map of silver
that plays with imagination.
Is it a Faery Path?
If I shrink and walk it
will it lead me into another World -
your World,
where I can learn your ways,
perhaps even earn your friendship?

For although in forms so utterly diverse,
this journey through life we share:
two Spirits woven from a single thread
of Sacred Divinity.
And I so love you, little brother,
and will shield you as best I can
from all the heartless barbarity
inherent in my kind;

whose lethal poisons would leave you writhing
in indescribable agony - your punishment
for needing to eat; and for offending
aesthetic sense of 'civilised' race,
who've decided you have no right
to sully 'their' beautiful land.
And they have the audacity
to call you abhorrent?

Little one, in your innocence I see
a beauty unique, unrivalled.
You have no eyes to see me
so I gently stroke your back, just
to say 'I'm here, and I care.'
You cringe violently - could it be
from the warmth of my hand,
or is it that instinctive fear
of human cruelty, common
to so many species on Earth?

And who could blame you if it were?
Limbless and with no means of defence,
you're an easy target for the Spiritually blind
who would delight in squashing you underfoot,
oblivious to what they're destroying:
an irreplaceable work of art
lovingly crafted by the hand of God.

Sunday, 9 September 2012

It all began as a bit of fun:
his secret weekly treat.
But never a day passes now
without furtively sneaking out,
avoiding detection by suspicious wife
while she's busy cleaning the house.

Closing front door, quiet as a mouse.
Very carefully does it:
mustn't crunch on the gravel drive.
Phew!
Safely obscured by conifer hedge.
Now for freedom a desperate bolt.

Neighbouring houses, trees, stream by
in a dizzy blur of elation.
Distance rapidly increasing between
himself and feared detention.

Tingling from scalp to the soles of feet
that barely connect with asphalt,
as breathless excitement propels him on.
Supermarket, chemist, newsagents; all
rise up then retreat in a flash, while he flies

over Mediterranean sea in his mind
to sandy palm-shaded beaches,
where gentle blue waves lap the shores
and exotic cocktails await him.

The doors swing open and pure adrenaline
shoots him straight inside
with the full force of a strongbow bolt.
His eagerness he can no longer hide.

Proffering his Soul to a Deity in exchange
for wealth redistribution,
he slams his coins down, loud as thunder
on the bookie's dark green counter.

'Two pounds on Russian Boy, please Burt,
in today's two-thirty race.'

And, without a doubt, he's doubly sure
that this time he's onto a winner...

Friday, 31 August 2012

Consider your life - has itreally been the catalogue
of disaster, annoyance and discontent
you believe it to be?
'Why is everything always against me?'
you often wail, 'Why is no one
ever on my side?'
Actually
your life is progressing perfectly.
You are simply being groomed
for Soul integration.
That is the purpose of physical life...

So your parents weren't exactly loving,
and encouragement appeared to be
an alien notion to them.
You felt overlooked, unwanted,
worthless.
Why?
Yours was no accident of birth.
You chose those particular circumstances
in order to learn independence
and self-motivation.
The lesson was simple.
The difficulty: perspective.

And those school bullies
who made your life hell on earth?
Best friends in disguise.
Think for a moment:
who else could have taught you
to stand up for yourself
and your principles as effectively?
Or instilled lasting self-confidence?
When you're backed into a corner,
inner reserves have no option
but to rise up and save the day.
Didn't you turn out
to be much stronger
and able to stand your ground
than you'd ever have believed possible?

That demoralising first betrayal
in love?
Phew,
what a lucky escape!
I mean, did you honestly want to be
stuck with a bore like him?
(Or any of those other self-serving
liars and cheats who followed
for that matter?)
Think of them as minute, insignificant squalls
on the surface of a bottomless ocean
of genuine love.
Instead of crying for weeks
you should have been out there diving deeper!

And failing those wretched exams
was no more than the blocking
of an inappropriate career choice.
There is no shame in being destined
for much greater things, and you know
that stagnating from nine-to-five,
seven days a week
in a solicitors office -
just to impress your parents -
would never have made you happy.

So, you see, your vocation as a human being
is to follow the promptings of Spirit,
while searching for the positive
in every situation.
Because each challenge you overcome
brings you one step closer to The Infinite.
Nothing ever happens by chance.

Above all, think of how little
these things will touch you
in middle-age
when you have arrived at your Greatness,
and can see in retrospect
life's lessons for what they were.
And no one will know, then,
how hard you once struggled
against the truth except, perhaps,
those who are struggling still:
those who sense in you a Kindred Spirit,
and search your face
for common ground.

Saturday, 25 August 2012

Sometimes it just happens.
Seems like a good idea at the time.
I'm sure you get the picture:
It's been a bad day -
one of the worst,
and you've had it with everyone,
everything.
So you decide to go out,
to forget.
Here, there are a myriad of diversions
in multi-coloured cylindrical forms
that seem to say,
'We can make you feel good!'
And that's all it takes
today.
So you succumb, all too easily,
to that exhilarating transition
into an alien world;
where walls are alive,
floors undulate and ripple.
And it's funny.
So funny.
You stumble.
Concerned faces loom over you.
Picasso-like,
their absurdity provokes
paroxysms of giggling.
You have to get out.
You need some air.

Streetlamps.
Golden globes that float
in a black Universe.
Dancing, swirling.
Mesmerising.
Trying to catch one
in your hands, but
the sidewalk tilts
forty-five degrees and splat,
you're flat on your face.
There's no pain, but there's blood.
A lot of blood.
It's dripping onto your hands,
making pretty patterns.
You stare at it,
detached, without wondering whyor how.
It just is.
Iron railings
become a crutch.
You're on your feet
and begin staggering off
in what you hope
is the direction of home.
A car parked in the street.
Catching sight of your reflection
in a side window as you pass.
'Carrie', the movie,
comes to mind.
Your laughter dies.
You feel suddenly sick.
You lean against a wall for support,
only to slither back down
onto the pavement.
Cheekbones and nose are beginning
to seriously hurt.
Fumbling through contents
of your bag
for something to numb the pain.
A vodka bottle comes to hand.
You try to line it up with your lips,
but that hand seems to be a separate entity
that you have no control over.
Heavy glass bashes against tooth enamel,
knocking your head back against red bricks.
A pointless exercise anyway
because the bottle is empty.
But the beautiful red patterns
your hands make
on the smooth glass
remind you of
a Turkish Delight sunset.
And you smile,
for the realisation dawns
that you, too, are a part of this miracle;
just as it is a part of you.
And today no longer matters.

Sunday, 5 August 2012

The girl at the checkout
handed it to me.
It was part of my change,
that five pound note.It stung my hand!
So I jammed it
into patchwork purse
and hurried home.

Safe in familiar territory,
with eyes closed
and mind open,
I took it out and held it
in receptive hand.

The blow to my chest
was debilitating.
Reeling, winded
and on the point
of collapse, I saw
the underside of a car
above me.
And the blood - so much blood,
spurting fountain like
from mangled thorax,
to drip ghastly strings of gore
from murderous metal ceiling.
Inside me,
crushed lungs
gurgled helplessly.
Absolutely horrified,
I threw it down.

It seemed an age before I dared
open my eyes,
pick it up and look.
When I did
I found the stain:
a huge sprawling patch
of faded sepia that
tainted the Queen's head
with tragedy.

I couldn't bear to spend it.
That would have seemed
somehow sacrilegious, like
robbing a Pharaoh's tomb.
So I wrapped it in silk
and buried it deep
in the womb of Mother Earth.

Friday, 6 July 2012

Am I a mad woman
because I converse
with the unpeopled spaces
between tangible matter?
Many would say so.
But intelligences do lurk there,
are concealed in the molecules
of thin air: non-beings
more real than I am, in
my slowly disintegrating form.
For they are immortal.

They come to me in the silent hours,
these messengers from the World of Spirit:
these fleeting shadows that fall
across curtains and wardrobe doors.
But my partner wakes,
turns over in bed;
and they dart away
through solid walls, afraid
he'll learn, unprepared,
of the dishonesty
of five-sense perception.

Friday, 29 June 2012

I cannot speak to you today.
No words of mine
can undo wounds inflicted
by the verbal sword of anger.
Memory will bear the scars forever.
Karmic debt is in the red.

I'm not much to write home about,
I know that.
Of course you'll find others more attractive,
more accomplished; much
more interesting.
I should learn to accept my mediocrity,
not hone it into a weapon
of us annihilation.
As if that could possibly
endear me to you more!

But I am trinity.
And yesterday, Ego declared war
on Divinity inside me.
Ego had glimpsed Divinity
through a chink in my psyche,
then found fragments of It's perfection
reflected in other women.
And it craved the admiration
such brilliance attracts,
mistaking that for love.
So it demanded it's own pedestal:
to be worshipped like them, as a
thing of beauty and desire - sought
self-worth in the opinions
of someone else.
It truly believed Divinity
to be something out there
that could be conquered and usurped.
But Divinity just smiled,
because It knew better.

I just caught sight of myself
in the mirror.
Ego's haggard, post-conflict face
is looking out at me.
But the eyes aren't quite right.
They no longer seem to fit the face;
have become beautiful,
entrancing almost.
I am inexorably drawn
into their bottomless emerald depths,
where I find Divinity nestling
at the core of my Being.
And trinity's warring factions
are finally fused into perfect unity.

I know now that I am OK
exactly as I am.
So are you.
So is everyone else.
And I can't apologise enough
for who I was
before today.

The moor.
He's heading for the moor.
Surely, this is him.
He'll be going home...
to find Cathy - or perhaps to hang
a litter of puppies
from the back of a chair.

Bravely catching him up.
No. An Italian accent,
not the broad Yorkshire
with a dash of Scouse
she so desperately wanted to hear.

Nor, after arduous climb
up steep moorland path,
is he at Top Withins.

Only three women here,

and half-a-dozen sheep.

Back down winding path

to Wycoller Hall.

﻿

He's bound to be there.
He'll have gone to settle
that old score with Edgar Linton.

Not here either. Just
a coachload of Japanese tourists,
a handful of Germans and a party
of French schoolgirls.

What now?
Running out of ideas.
Time to consult her 'bible',
a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights.
Of course - Cathy's grave!
He's sure to be there.

Scouring ordnance survey map
for likely location.
There it is!
Small disused Georgian cemetery
bordering lonely Heptonstall moor.
A long stretch on foot, but
she may just make it before dark.

Daylight beginning to fade
as she reaches the summit
of rocky hillock.
There, just below her, ancient gravestones:
leaning like crooked, discoloured teeth.
And he's there!
Dressed in black, on his knees;
placing flowers on a grave.

An ordinary summer house
in a typical country garden.
Almost.
Appearances can sometimes be deceptive.
Because this is a place of extraordinary
inspiration, where hypnotic birdsong
lulls the mind into altered states
of consciousness; where
the heart opens to Soul language,
translating it effortlessly
into simple everyday words.

Here, I am the blank page that awaits
our collective life story:
am a humble transmission device
for Universal communication.
I think they call me "poet",
although the privilege is a fleeting one.
I cannot hold on to such ethereal impressions,
nor ever call them mine.
The best I can do is catch them as they pass
and record them here on this screen,
before they're lost forever
to the spiralling of time.

Today, I've been trapped in a creative void.
Yet as I now lean on the frame
of open window, watching
the lengthening shadows
trace crazy patterns across the lawn;
the sweet scent of honeysuckle
permeates a garden suddenly filled
with the most delightful birdsong...

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About Me

I am a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a citizen of Planet Earth, a temporarily incarnated creature of the Spirit World, a natural medium, a Pagan, a Druid, a student of the Western Mystery Tradition, A follower of the Way of Merlyn, a psychic, an idealist, and an ultra-sensitive Soul. My life purpose is to help make the world a better place for the whole of creation in any way I can.